Seas and Souls of Sunken Ships
by K1RALA
Summary: In which a younger Shikamaru ponders his way with words and clouds.


**Title:** Seas and Souls of Sunken Ships

**Summary: **In which a younger Shikamaru ponders his way with words and clouds.

**Fandom:** Naruto - Featuring Nara Shikamaru

**Words: **1201

_Shikamaru loved words._

He loved the way the every stroke and every character danced across the crisp white of paper, how they leapt around stiff lines and bent them to their will. How they mixed and mingled into one blurry picture of distortions, of swirls in dented mirrors and warped art, how, after a while, he could no longer discern one inked word from another.

It was hard to write, like controlling charging bulls seeing red under the base of a _single_ thumb, to struggle with shepherding a flustered sheep, _squirming_ and _kicking_ like petulant toddlers and whining infants.Yet it was _satisfying_, to take up the art of writing blindly, to be able to allow his hand to act independently of his _betraying eyes_, for he knew that words did not move like that.

Sometimes though, he just felt like_ giving up_, when he just wanted to lay his head down on the cool surface of the table, and trace the smooth contours of the edges with his fingers. Sometimes it took _too much _out of him to concentrate _(way too much)_, to focus and focus _(and focus) _until he could feel a migraine building up in the knots of his brain, to _extort_ all of his effort into deciphering the traitorous strokes until he had none left to spare.

Sometimes he knew what he wanted to say, what he wanted to write,_ it was all so clear_ in his head yet when he tried, they just would not come out and he was _so frustrated_ and _why won't they just listen to me and let me write_?

Sometimes he watched the other children _effortlessly_ scrawl out their _chicken-scratches_ in response to the words on the pristine white of the sheets, and he wondered if their words twirled around as much as his did, if they found it as hard to keep up with their _waltzes _and_ tangos_ as he did. He wondered if_ they were just better_ at it than himself, and he was just being _lazy_ and not trying hard enough.

He loved tuning out the voice of his teacher at the front of the class, _spouting_ _words_ that reached his ears as a _jumbled_ _mess_ _of_ _instructions_, lectures and advice, too blended up for him to pick out the individual phrases and string them into coherent sentences, for _he knew_ that even as he tried, along the way he would lose track and _everything will fade back _into the array of confusing noises and sounds of people talking and the birds were chirping outside, people were laughing not far off and the leaves on the trees were _rustling to the rhythm of the wind_ whispering their secrets and _just concentrate damnit_!

Sometimes he pretended he could read the marks on the chalkboard. Sometimes he watched with _unseeing_ _eyes_ at the black board, staring into its _swirling void,_ like the edges of a building tornado whipping its lashes, capturing bodies of diagrams and the limbs of characters, _flippantly flinging_ them carelessly towards the corners of the classroom, where they picked themselves up and started_ their own little performance_, and he would let his gaze linger on their svelte figures, watched their tilting bodies as they brushed the air with their merry gaits, until he could hear one loud booming sentence with _sudden clarity_, his attention _snapped back_ at the front of the class and he would be _angry_ with himself, he would resist the urge to _fist his hair_ and _yell at himself _to _concentrate damnit - why was it so hard_?

But what he _loved_ most of all, were his own words.

He loved how every visible effort of his own part gives birth to a _new_ _stroke_, a _new_ _character_, its lopsided figure and mirrored features just _another way of proving that every single character is precious_, that there is _no wrong ones or right_ ones, nice ones or ugly ones because they are like his own children, _born from his fingers_ gripping the pen tightly, almost painfully, struggling and frowning and gnawing on his lower lip as he gives his very best to every one of these _beautiful_, _animate beings_.

He loved how they would_ come to life before his eyes_, and his eyes only, how they seemed to celebrate just being there, with him, _celebrate their living_ and living to dance and prance and _cheer_. He could almost hear the _cacophony of chortles_ and the _feather weight of happiness_ and _contentment_ from his own little _community_, he could follow them with his own two eyes -and his only- as they gracefully slid off the page in a trance, _a spell,_ as they marched across the table in unruly columns like a child's first steps, and, with some imagination on his part, they would gain speed and take off onto the ledge of the window, a leap and they would spread their invisible wings and soar into the air, against the wind, climbing _higher_ and _higher_.

Like dots of black birds they would fly into the sky, dark against the clear blue backdrop, and they would ultimately come to a rest upon the white fog, _torn and tattered with rounded tears_, like a veil shielding the blue sky from human eyes and _only through those tears _could Shikamaru see, amongst his own black characters, a sea of lighter blue, and the clouds are the souls of _happy ships, sunken long ago_, and the black characters have taken residence on the whitewashed decks, _waiting_ for him to come home to them.

Sometimes, when he himself lay in the field, soft grass tickling the nape of his neck, fingers laced and wedged under his head like a makeshift pillow, he would glance up towards the clouds. And he would pretend that all the little words that _he_ had brought to existence, all his little children, are somewhere up there, _hiding_ amongst the folds of the cotton silk, waiting, _waiting for him_ to soar right up there and _pluck_ them from the tangles of the white yarn; _scoop_ them from the icy cold of the sea of sky; and _sweep_ them up from the whitewashed decks of the souls of sunken ships. _Bring them back_ down to the ground, pressing them into the pages _where they belong_, where his eyes would - he hoped - someday be able to watch as the characters _stay still and silent_, and he would be able to read them and know them as they are _individuals_, for every word has a story and he wants, he needs to know the stories of _his own children_.

He knew that, he hoped that, if he just _concentrated_ _hard enough_ _(damnit just focus)_, one day his wish _may_ come true.

But for now, he will watch the clouds where they reside, watching, waiting, conserving his energy to _one day_ _(just one day) _be able to sprout invisible wings as _his_ children have done, to _soar_ into the clouds, shrouded by the cotton white of the silk veil, like the pristine white of the crisp paper, for the sky is the sea and the clouds are the souls of _happy_ _ships_, _sunken long ago._


End file.
